My Memory is Fuzzy
by 2DaughtersOfAthena
Summary: Draco Malfoy was shot. There was blood everywhere. Hermione struggles to remember exactly what was going on, and why her doctors want to know what happened. Oneshot, complete. AU.


**House: Ravenclaw, Category: Short, Prompt: Running out of time, WC: 1158**

 **AU disclaimer. Hermione wakes up in a muggle hospital, confused about why she is there, or how she got there. But she remembers what happened to Draco Malfoy. Whether the doctors believe her is another matter...**

 **0-0-0-0**

A hospital? N and N, right. That's a muggle hospital isn't it? Yes, muggle. Non-magical. Sorry doctor, but how long have I been here? My head feels very fuzzy. Like I've been asleep for far too long. The man in the picture? Oh, yes, that's Draco, my boyfriend. Sorry, what happened to him? Is that what you're asking? My ears are a little funny recently. Oh, of course. Let me tell you.

Well, I remember this really loud noise. A gunshot, that's right.

Mostly I remember how extraordinarily loud it was, how it made my ears protest and pop, and how it made my mind scream. It was... A fluke, I think. I don't totally recall. Maybe it was a dangerous neighbourhood, or a terrorist incident. We were passing through a non-magical district. There was no way I could prevent what happened.

Everything else is much more fragmented. Time was being a bitch, really.

First? Right. The gunshot was first, obviously. After that, approximately twelve seconds of complete oblivion; incomprehensible confusion. Like seventeen headaches bursting out all at once whilst messing with your balance. I had no sense of proprioception, and the world felt as though it were quickly falling away from me. Twelve seconds of barely knowing my own name, let alone trying to understand what was going on. Twelve seconds of ringing ears and a blinding white across my vision.

Next. Okay. It was a span of four seconds in which my body felt as though... It felt like I had been thrown into a twister. It was like a flood had burrowed itself through my chest. The time was heavier than fifty cars, piled on top of me. But I was conscious of the time - more conscious of it now, of course. At this point I had realised it was a gunshot. Somewhere, in those four seconds, you know that it could be you. You wonder whether it's you who is flat on their back. I remember checking myself over, searching for the tell-tale inky butterfly of blood spreading over my body. And then there was the panic. Because if it wasn't me...

I've never been sure of how to explain those feelings that rushed towards me after that - you know, when I realised it wasn't me. It was worse than the twister thing. It was like being thrown into the Atlantic Ocean, clad in iron, sinking fast, unable to breathe, drowning. It was like being barrelled into by a freight train, limbs tearing themselves away from my body. It was like I was the one who was dying.

You see, doctor, Draco Malfoy had always been pale. It's an unshakable fact of life. Except, when I turned to face him, it was as though his whole life had been a lie. Secretly he had never really been truly pale. Flushed with surprise, he was still paler than any shade of white I had ever encountered. Ghostly. Horrific. Dying.

Time was suddenly my enemy.

In my very sheltered muggle childhood, I used to watch those medical television shows. You know the one, yes Holby City. I picked up a couple of things when my mother and I snuck downstairs to watch it late at night. My parents being dentists, it interested them to see the media version of it all. They accompanied the tv-doctors dramatic attitudes with facts. How much blood is in the human body. How fast your heart pumps at a regular rate. They taught me to do the math when someone was bleeding out.

I did the calculations in my head that night. As he crumpled on the floor, I took his pulse, took an expected total for his blood volume, then found the ETA.

Sorry, I don't mean to bother you. You wanted the details, right? I wanted to tell the truth. Yes, I worked out how long it would take him to bleed out, based on the fact that he had a punctured lung, seven pints of blood, and a heart rate that would make his time last another eight minutes. Is that crude to you? You who all do the exact same thing, but with people you don't know. I should calm down? Fine.

To tell you the truth doctor, we weren't always such a perfect match for each other. One might even say that we were enemies of sorts at school. Curses, jinxes, harsh words, the whole lot. I'm not mad, I promise. We fell in love a few years ago; a wonderful thing, a joyous occasion. All of those nice sentiments. Before, when I was hurt, I had magic to save me. But... When Draco got shot, I didn't have the crutch of magic to protect either of us. Time was slipping away from me.

I don't need the sedatives, please. I want to finish my story. It's coming back to me a little more.

He told me that he was dying. How messed up is that? Who does that? There was blood spilling out of him, merging with the gravel, over his shirt, his hands, and me. Everything was slippery with it. I tried to keep my fingers pressed against his sternum, desperate to stem the constant flow. Why didn't I call an ambulance? Are you kidding? We never carry mobiles, I couldn't leave him, I couldn't do anything. I was useless. He wasted effort in telling me that he was dying. Spitting blood and phlegm, lips wet with red.

How do you focus on saving someone's life, doctor? Do you focus on them, or do you focus on the pressure and the undeniable panic? I had eight minutes, and there was nothing I could do to save him. At that stage, what do you do? No thank you, I don't need a tissue.

Look, I don't remember who or why they shot him. It happened.

In those last minutes, he was coughing. Laying down on the pavement, he couldn't move at all for the choking. There wasn't time to do anything. Not enough time to do everything I had planned in life.

They say that a second contains an infinite number of moments. They say that last seconds, last hours, and last days are lifetimes in themselves. These things they say are a horrific lie. There was no time to live the life I wanted with him. There wasn't time to travel any further than that region, get married, have a family, and die together with greying hair. There was hardly even time to say goodbye. How can there ever be enough time to say goodbye?

No, I don't want the medication. It makes me feel fuzzy. My memory cuts out sometimes after I take them. No, I -


End file.
